


The Purpose of Loving is the Pounding it Takes

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Pacify [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assume Beth is alive. Assume she makes it to the ASZ. Assume she and Daryl are together. Assume everything is fine. Queue up some light bondage porn, enjoy with the beverage of your choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Purpose of Loving is the Pounding it Takes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little nothing that serves as a break from both [angsty mythology](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2867786/chapters/6420848) and the novel I'm trying to finish before 2015 rings itself in. It's sex. There is nothing else to it. Enjoy.
> 
> Title from ["You Don't Make it Easy Babe"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63LUzyrPV4Q) by Josh Ritter.
> 
> _the ropes that have bound me leave no marks by their knots_   
>  _and though they're your hair that don't mean I'm not caught_

At first she loves it, how gentle he is with her. At first.

It's not this sweeping romantic thing she once imagined this business might be, and he's not confident, not leading her like some kind of hero in a movie. He's actually a little awkward, a little unsure, and he seems afraid of disappointing her somehow. He doesn't. It's good. Very good. He takes his time, gets her wet - she already is, she's already just a little desperate because there's the factor of time and because all the world is desperate now, but when she begs him he slides a finger into her and out again, circles her clit, until she's burying her face in the hollow of his throat and gasping.

And he's gentle with her, and it's so good.

But that was a while ago now. And maybe she's getting a little bit tired of _gentle._

Mostly what they get is stolen moments, not a lot of space for privacy around here, and everyone always has a job to do. For a while they were sneaking around and then they sort of stopped giving a fuck so she's pretty sure almost everyone knows, but they don't talk about it. They just are. Together. It's easy. After everything being so hard, it's so fucking easy. And it's easy now, with him in the toolshed, her hands gripping his arms and his knee sliding up between her legs, and the fact that they're both supposed to be coming out of here with shovels in pretty short order doesn't matter a whole lot.

It's been a couple of days and she's not just damp with sweat. It's not just the summer heat. God, she feels like she's burning up down there, and he won't stop being _careful_ with her.

"Please," she murmurs, and he presses her back against the worktable, tips her head back with a hand in her hair, mouth on her throat. Kissing her there, hard, tongue flicking out to taste her sweat, but lately she's been thinking about his teeth.

Good girls aren't supposed to think about these things. But good girls also aren't supposed to fuck men twice their age in toolsheds.

She's tired of being a _Good Girl,_ and she's tired of _gentle._

She can feel his cock straining against her thigh and it sends another rush of heat pulsing between her thighs and she lifts one of them, slides herself upward using his arms for leverage, hooks a leg higher against his hip and practically grinds herself against him. He's noticing that this isn't exactly how she usually is, even as he's nudging a hand up under her shirt, because she can feel a slight hesitation, feel his surprise in his body and the way he moves, and there's something about her that likes that - a sharp little jab of heat different from everything else she's feeling. She can surprise him. She can do that. She reaches between them and traces the outline of his cock through his pants and he draws in a hard little breath.

Nothing she hasn't done before. But she's hungry. He has to know it. She combs her other hand into his hair, tugs his head away from her; his eyes are deep, half-lidded with arousal, and obeying total instinct she leans forward again, catches his lower lip between her teeth and tugs.

Not hard. But another indrawn breath and his hips roll against her, against her hand. They don't have a lot of time. Her shirt is sweat-stuck to her back. She lets him go, moves her hand from him to her jeans and fumbles. "Daryl."

Head tipped against hers. "What?"

"God, just." She laughs, because this is ridiculous. " _Fuck_ me."

Not sure she's ever said it. For a second he looks at her like he's never seen her before and she almost laughs again. He _can't_ think of her as a Good Girl and if he actually does she thinks she might actually fucking punch him. But she curls her fingers into his shirt and drags him harder in, places his other hand against her breast and mouths it against his jaw. Silent. He'll know what she's saying.

_Fuck me._

This time his hold on her hair is tighter. Pulls her head back. Not painfully rough, but all at once she can feel it in him, something. She _knows_ it's in there. Maybe he's still a little afraid of her, and maybe it's not a bad idea for him to be so, but when he looks at her she sees it in his eyes. She's seen it before. There's violence in him, it's impossible not to know that. That is _not_ this...

But maybe an edge of it. Just the ghost of a blade. She shivers and it's like it travels from her to him.

"You're not gonna break me." She shakes her head, as best she can with him gripping her like he is. "Promise you're not."

She wants it. But she still doesn't know quite how to ask for what she wants. It's not embarrassment, though she's flushed - cheeks hot, ears hot, even her chest, beaded with sweat. There's no space for embarrassment in this world. But she still doesn't have the words. Hasn't found them. She just needs him to know. She looks up at him in the dimness, her lips parted, almost panting, and _God_ she wants him in her so bad she can hardly stand it.

And he shoves her harder against the table, pins her with his body, and abruptly he feels so much _bigger_ than her and she doesn't even bother to fight back a moan.

Yes, he knows. Words have never really been his strong suit, so of course he can do without them. There's a prickle of uncertainty in his eyes, but that's okay. Maybe they should both be a little scared. Maybe she should be trembling, all gooseflesh all over, so wet she feels like she's about to soak through her jeans.

He knows.

He seals his mouth over hers, and at first it's still a little hesitant, but then there's a new edge in it, and she can feel his teeth. Her head is being tugged further back, forcing an arch into her neck that extends all down her spine, and he pushes at her shirt, rough palm on her ribs, on her breast through her bra, squeezing. Kneading. He loves her breasts, no matter how self-conscious she was at first, always made that clear with how he touched her, but it was never like this. His thumb flicks at her nipple and her hips jump and she gasps.

"Tell me if you don't like it." His voice a rumble in his throat. He doesn't sound like he can manage anything else. "Tell me-" And she practically lunges up and catches his lower lip with her teeth again. Once, a hard nip, and then he's bending her back like a bow.

"God, Daryl, shut _up._ "

He pushes her legs apart with his knee, hand rougher on her breast; before she realizes what he's doing he's pulling hard on the fabric, pulling it down, and she feels the bite of the underwire and actually hears something tear. He freezes but her mouth drops open, another little moan, and again... They don't need words.

He smiles crookedly. Dives in again. Fingers find her nipple and pinch her, something he's _never_ done, and she muffles a little cry against his wrist as sparks shoot through her, bright and sharp, down to burn in her cunt.

" _Please."_

In her bed, in his, sometime somewhere they might do this more slowly. She might want that. But suddenly she's fumbling at him, close to beating her fists against him, and he drags her shirt off with one hand and practically throws it away. Doesn't bother with her bra. She gropes for her fly, he's there before her, still with one hand. His hand under her waistband, in her panties, and his fingertip grazes her clit and she whimpers.

And he pulls back.

When she looks up, confused and aching, he's backlit by the one small window. He's glistening, hair hanging in his face, and he looks fucking _huge_. He's never looked at her like this. Like he wants to eat her alive.

If she didn't know he loves her enough to die for her she might be frightened of him now.

She's opening her mouth to say something but he's gripping her arm, almost hard enough to hurt, whirling her around. She lets out a shocked little grunt when he forces her against the table, its edge sending a quick jab of pain into her hips when they collide, and this would still be confusing except when she feels him yanking her jeans and underwear the rest of the way down her legs she knows exactly what this is.

And she thinks she might come the second he touches her.

"Daryl," she gasps, and it cuts off in a whine as he jams two fingers into her cunt, not slow or giving her time to adjust but fucking them in and out of her, other hand gripping the back of her neck to hold her in place. It should hurt, maybe, but it doesn't. It feels _amazing._ She knows he's strong, has always known it, but he's never made her _feel_ it like this, like he could literally break her, and it does something to her that she can't define. Her breath is coming in little pants, things that aren't quite groans, and she knows how close she is, has been since before he bent her over the table, but when he withdraws his fingers and presses and rolls them against her clit all at once she's coming so _hard,_ a whipcrack through her, a sharp burn that clenches her teeth and throws her head back against his chest.

He doesn't give her time to recover. She's breathing in heaves, aftershocks rolling through her, bracing herself up with both hands, so she nearly falls when he grabs her wrists and yanks them back, yanks them together.

This is new.

"What're you- _Daryl._ " Leather against her hands. The sound of a belt buckle. She can't pull them apart - he's wrapping them together, metal against the small of her back astonishingly cool in the heat, and now she _is_ frightened, just a little, because he's never made her this helpless. Never taken this much power from her.

But he hasn't, is the thing. She knows she could tell him she doesn't like it, tell him to stop, and she wouldn't need to say it twice. He would be gentle again.

She doesn't want him to stop. She doesn't want gentle. She grits her teeth, jerks her hips back, feels his cock against her ass and slick pre-come. The familiar sound of a condom wrapper tearing. God, he's going to. He is.

She asked for it.

When he enters her it's with a single thrust, almost angry, and this time her cry isn't muffled. It rasps in her throat, her body arching, but he cups a hand against the back of her head and forces her down, her cheek against the rough grain of the table. Grit against her lips. She smells oil and wood shavings, and him as he pounds into her, using both hands on her hips to practically lift her off her feet. She feels droplets of his sweat falling onto her bare back, her arms already aching from how they're bound behind her, and she knows she's going to hurt in a _lot_ of places later.

She grins against the tabletop and she thinks _not a Good Girl, no._

She's not disappointing anyone.

Everything is blurring into his hard, short grunts, the rattle of the wood against the wall, the smack of his skin on hers. She won't come this way, she knows that, but somehow she's past it, lost in a kind of buzzing heat that sings in her head. Someone could come in looking for them, find her like this, and she grins harder. Insanely, she's close to laughter. She loves this. _Fuck,_ she does, him on her and in her and so powerful, when she knows it's really her. She has the power. She has all of it. If she can make him do this, she can make him do anything.

Then again, she didn't have to try that hard. This was already in him. She bet on it.

She loves being right.

It doesn't take him long. His movements get a little jerky, a little stuttering, and when he comes he muffles his groan against her shoulder, mouth open and almost biting at her. Abruptly she wants to reach up and dig her fingers into his neck, _make_ him bite her, and look at that, apparently she can still be a little shocked by herself.

Next time. Next time.

He's still and heavy on her, breath hot and coming shallow and rough. She's not comfortable, not even _sort_ of, but somehow she doesn't want him to move. She wants to stay like this, sticky and aching with him pinning her down. She wants to stay like this so much longer than they can.

"Beth," he murmurs. Hand braced against the table, fingers against her jaw, against her wrists. She might be bruised there. Does she hope she is? Does she hope someone sees it, guesses what they've done? What he's done _to_ her? "Jesus, you... Y'alright?"

"Yeah." She's smiling now, not grinning but softer, easier. Because that hot need in her isn't gone but it's smoldering, red coals instead of flames, and moving over it is a slow, warm wave of something so intense it presses and fills low in her throat. He makes her feel like this. She knew he would. He can be rough with her and she can love it, but in the end it'll always be like this again. His lips against the back of her neck, her shoulder, as he pulls his belt free of her hands.

She loves him. She loves him and it's perfect, because this will never, ever be wrong.

And she doesn't have to be _good._

Neither of them do.


End file.
